


Hey

by Teawithmagician



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Breaking Up & Making Up, F/M, Het, Military Backstory, Rough Kissing, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-24
Updated: 2016-03-24
Packaged: 2018-05-28 18:43:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6340888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teawithmagician/pseuds/Teawithmagician
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first thing she remembers how he did it to her, how he made her scream. Three turns were never enough. He liked to do it. He really liked it. There was something morbid in the way he liked to do it after the explosion knocked off his helmet and his hair started to burn. When everything ended, they just needed a quiet corner to do it – and he never minded the pain in the broken ribs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hey

“Hey,” he says, hands in the pockets.

“Hey,” she says, closing the door. One, two, three. The lock clicks, the key goes down.

The first thing she remembers how he did it to her, how he made her scream. Three turns were never enough. He liked to do it. He really liked it. There was something morbid in the way he liked to do it after the explosion knocked off his helmet and his hair started to burn. When everything ended, they just needed a quiet corner to do it – and he never minded the pain in the broken ribs.

She turns back slowly, pretending she was ready to hear his voice. It's dark in the stairwell, he is standing – one, two, three – steps away from her. His haircut is shorter than she remembers and his jeans are baggy. There are no scars on his face, even the smallest and the freshest ones, it looks smooth like a baby's bottom and it's rarely neatly shaved.

“Do you remember how you was making that tattoo?” he nods at her hip and smiles. It's a strange, shy smile, so unwonted on his face. Following his look, she looks down at her hip, too. It's still there, the tattoo - all roses and flames, and skulls. She finds it extremely stupid now.

“Yes, I remember how I was making this tattoo,” she says in a reflective manner. The hints are never enough to make him leave, she remembers that by heart, and she is right - he ain't no leaving. He makes a step and a step more up the staircase. When he is ready to make the third step, she tells him, “Now stop.”

He stops. He puts his big olive hand on the railing. The veins under his skin are thick and bulging, the nails are short and a little bit yellowish on their narrow, barely visible tips. He still cuts his nails so short there is pinkish flesh jutting out from the nail plate.

“You made stupid noises. You was like a dying whale or something. So I gave you my hand,” he gives her his hand once again, the inside of his palm up like a beggar asking for a change. In the grayish light of a rainy morning, he looks smudged and pale like an old photography. “I told you, bite me. Go ahead and bite me. Bite me hard if it hurts.”

“Oh my god,” she raises her voice but the sound of the door opening on the ground floor, the shuffling steps and the sound of a shaky finger, pressing the button for the elevator, which comes to the electrical call from up there, rattling, makes her lowering it. “Why don't you leave me alone, you pathetic jerk? The whole thing was a mistake. You were a mistake. Everything was a mistake.”

“There is still a scar here,” he says as though not listening to her at all. He rubs his skin with his finger, stretching it, and she sees the scar, hiding in the folds of it. It's a pale semicircle of teeth, each indented into the hand so deep it remembers her a stretch of carved-in magical beans. “Three years has passed. Still there.”

One, two, three. There's one for the sorrow, two for the joy – what the third is for? The third one she always forgets about always goes with the four. Among the cypress hills and the dusty streets of her childhood, there were no such rhymes in the nurseries. Evridiki, Evridiki, go home – your father, he is... Oh, Evridiki!

“Why are you showing me that stupid scar for?” she hisses at him, pressing her bag to her hip with her sore elbow with a bloody crust on the top of it. She is darker than him – her hair, her skin, her eyes, so he called her “Leyla” and told her that “Leyla” was for the night in the language no one of them knew. “Why don't you get rid of it?”

“Because you are in me,” he says, moving his hand aside. His chest is open, his defense is suspiciously weak – if she wants to shove him in the chest, he will fall on his back like a turtle, and, while he lies, she will have a tactical superiority; a chance to beat all of this stupid romance out of him. So why she is not doing it, why hasn't she already done it?

“You are in me like that fucking scar. In my heart, Leyla,” oh no, he presses his hand to his chest, where his heart must be pumping the blood which was smeared all over his face while the cars were burning and the echo of explosion still ringed in the ears. He presses his hand to the chest and outstretches it back to her again as though trying to touch her with the tips oh his fingers, but never really reaching her.

“Three years has passed,” she snaps at him violently. She is sad and mad at the same time with the way how pathetic he looks, standing before her in that civilian clothes that never fit him well, with his thick neck in the collar of a T-shirt, with his massive arms and steep forehead, begging her like a mumper.

Who let him stalk her, come at her place, irritate her with the past she wanted to forget? Who let him remind her how she kissed his lips, and stirred his hair, and caressed his face, and asked him if she loved her more than fucking, and he said – yes, I love you more than fucking with you.

“Three years has passed, and you still are not leaving me alone. I have a life of my own, I have a work, I have a – everything I ever wanted, the life that was always mine. I have a diploma! I can be whoever I want, and you – and you just want to get yourself killed! I don't want to know you anymore.”

“Evridiki,” when he calls her by the name it sounds like a moan. He takes the final step, the cursed third one – one, two, three: three times her father was shot because it was his work – to serve, to protect and to be shot if anything went wrong: the third time bled him to death. One, two, three – two years she served the country her mother moved in before the explosion blew off the quarter they used to patrol. One, two, free – two times she coped with his reckless before they make out minutes after they were supposed to be dead just like anyone else.

“I don't love you, “ she spits into his face. How dare he threatens her with that blasted number? “I don't even like you.”

“Will you like me more if I tell you I am retired? I'm not a man you used to know. I've changed. I want to start again. Will you give me a chance?” he asks. He stands so close to her he feels his hand lying on her hand while her hand clenches the railing – how has he done it so she hasn't even noticed it? - feels his steady, deep breath on her skin, sees his eyes – how deep, dark and tightening they are.

“If you are not the man I used to know, why the hell should I need you?” she whispers into his mouth and headbutts his in the face with all the power of her childish tears, teenage anger, girlish umbrages and constant, unbearable fear of making the wrong choice and picking up the man who is born only to die because that's what all the policemen and soldiers do – being born to die.

“Bitch,” he screams, backing off. His nose is broken, there is blood streaming down his lips and dripping from chin, bright like cherry syrup and sticky like a gravy. Blood glows on his pale green T-shirt like roses, unfolding their lush buds. His eyes go black, veins on his neck and his temples are pulsing, his movements become harsh and impending.

Before he is ready to get into the fight, she kisses him, eliciting the taste of his blood with her every pore. “I've been called worse,” she tells him, biting his lips so ferocious and deep he moans and swears, he swears and moans he'll make her pay twice for being such a mad bitch.

“How the fuck have you been called?” he asks, pushing her back to the wall. The bag falls on the floor and cracks open softly. Her wallet falls into the flight of the stairs, her keys are ringing underneath his feet, he lipstick rolls down the steps, pitter-pattering gently and the package of her pads sticks out, remembering her it may be not the best time to fall in love with him again.

“You girlfriend” she answers revengefully and sighs with anticipation and pleasure, feeling his knee between her legs, forgetting everything she has just thought about.


End file.
